


Down at the Spearmint Rhino

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cheap Vodka in Plastic Cups, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent for Mutual Drunk Sex, F/F, Friendship, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, Lestrade's Sad Little Flat, Loneliness, Oral Sex, Spearmint Rhino, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's night starts with a call from the Spearmint Rhino, a strip club for sad coppers. </p><p>Fem!Johnstrade. Hurt/Comfort. Dub-con for mutual drunk sex. Inspired by comments by Rupert Graves on the character of Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down at the Spearmint Rhino

**Author's Note:**

> [Friends Forever](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1248886) is the John and Lestrade backstory, including the origin of their nicknames and the Star Wars incident that is referred to here. 
> 
> Sherlock gets a pretty cynical treatment here; her and John's relationship (or lack of one) is left purposefully vague.

“If _this_ hadn’t fallen out of her pocket, I would’ve tossed her out on her arse.”

John caught a flash of familiar black leather in a meaty hand. She followed the man through the club, taking two strides to his one, grateful that her current lifestyle afforded her constant practice in keeping pace with the long-limbed. The word SECURITY glowed across the man’s back. Trailing closely behind him, John strained to hear his hoarse baritone over the thump-thump-thump.

“But I don’t want no trouble with no,” he stopped and read, “ _detective inspector_.” He handed the badge to John.

“Regular, is she?”

“Regular enough. Had a bit of a thing for our Sheila.” The man nodded his bucket-shaped head at the stage where a young woman clad in a scrap of lace curled and uncurled upside down around a pole. Her long dark hair brushed the floor. Glitter fell from her body like sparkly snow.

John wanted to whistle; instead she said, “Impressive athleticism.”

The man smirked. “Sheila’s sent more than one punter to the nuttery, but she and your copper had a right nasty row tonight. In the front of the house. And that’s not on. Sheila’s our star.”

They reached a back corridor. The music faded.

“How did you know to call me?”

“You’re number ‘2’ on her speed dial.” He dropped a mobile phone in John’s hand. “Number ‘1’ didn’t answer.”

No, she prefers to text.

The man turned a doorknob. “Oh, Cinders! Your pumpkin’s here!” he crooned.

John kept her expression frozen, but inwardly, she cringed at the smell of vomit and bleach.

There she was, crumpled amidst mops and buckets; a croaky ‘ _mother-fucking cunt-slag_ ’ dropped from her lips.

John used her battlefield voice. “Greg.”

Lestrade lifted her head and cracked one eye.

“John,” she slurred.

The man looked from one woman to the other. “So it’s like that, eh? Whatever. Two minutes. Take her out the back.” He gestured farther down the hall. “And she’ll behave or she’s not wanted back. Sad, sad copper.” He stood, hands on hips, sighing and shaking his head. “Tsk, tsk.”

John bit back a cheeky ‘Yes, Mother.’ She raised her head, pressed her lips together, and jutted her chin out. Mission-ready.

“Thanks. I’ll take it from here,” she said, extending her hand. The man shook it, surreptitiously collecting the bill from John’s palm, another frequently-honed skill these days. He grunted and disappeared.

John bent down and repeated in a much softer voice.

“Greg.”

“I-I-I’m not as pissed as I s-s-smell.”

Lestrade sat up, grimacing. She looked at the brooms and rags, and then she looked up at John with an expression of complete befuddlement.

John sighed. “Let’s go.” She grabbed Lestrade’s arm and hoisted her on her good shoulder.

Lestrade groaned as John carried her down the corridor and out the door to the waiting taxi.

* * *

Lestrade’s ragged voice mingled with the hiss of the shower.

“Went there for a case, saw her performing, and fell arse over tit.”

John laughed. Cup of coffee in one hand, glass of water in the other, she was leaning against the edge of the sink, staring at the chipped tile.

“Took her statement myself. Of course, she saw nothing. Knew nothing. But we got to chatting and, well, she was extraordinary. Clever. Beautiful. Way out of my league. Not to mention my generation. But, I thought there was chemistry, a spark of something, you know?”

John hummed noncommittally.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I went home and looked her up on the internet. Nothing, which should’ve been a clue. Anyway, I went back to the club the next night, watched her dance. She saw me and smiled. Christ, John! That feeling!”

John nodded, one side of her mouth turning up. Lestrade coughed. John extended an arm behind the plastic curtain, offering the water. “Thanks.” John heard her gargle, spit, and then slump against the tile with a sigh. The glass reappeared, half full. “She had one of the waitresses slip me her number and I was gone. _Gone_. Head in the clouds, walking on air, every cliché.”

“And?”

“And I called her. And we went out. And we stayed in.”

“And?”

“And it was glorious!”

Lestrade yelped; there was the squeaking of hands and feet seeking purchase against wet porcelain. John peeked around the curtain. “You okay?”

Lestrade was panting, holding onto the taps with a white-knuckled grip. Water poured off her eyelashes and nose. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She sniffed loudly and wiped her face with her hand. “And an idiot.”

John smiled and returned to her post. “Well, I have it on good authority that practically everyone is, myself included.” Then she frowned. “When did all this start?”

“About three months ago.” Lestrade turned off the water. John handed her a towel.

“What? And I’m just now hearing about it!?” John glared at the shower curtain.

“I was superstitious. Thought if I said anything that I would jinx it. Plus, come on, a girl like that, an old hag like me. I didn’t want to see that look.”

John huffed. “What look?”

“The look you’re giving me right now, John Watson. Even through the curtain, I can feel it.”

“So what happened?”

Lestrade sighed.

“Said her name was Sheila.”

“So?”

“That was the first lie.”

“Hardly surprising given her line of work, Greg.”

“True. Hand me that bathrobe, please? Thank you. Said she was studying criminal justice. Clever, that bit. That was the second lie.” Lestrade pushed the curtain back. She tied the sash at her waist and stepped gingerly out of the bath, taking John’s offered arm for support. They were almost nose-to-nose. Then Lestrade said bitterly,

“She said I was special, different from the rest. That was the last lie.”

Lestrade’s bottom lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears. “Christ, John,” she said, blinking and looking at a corner of the ceiling. “I am an idiot.”

John felt a hard stone settle in the pit of her stomach. She threw the water and coffee down the drain and said,

“Fancy a drink?”

* * *

“Wish I could offer you something better,” said Lestrade.

John eyed the clear liquid in the plastic cup suspiciously. “S’fine.” She sipped.

Holy Mother of God, it was foul.

They were seated on the sofa, John pointedly not looking at the blank space on the opposite wall. She didn’t need to be a proper genius to know what had happened to Lestrade’s flat screen television, and since she wasn’t a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, she wasn’t going to mention it. At least not directly.

“She ask you for help?” There were several forms of help that Lestrade might provide; John wondered just how smitten her friend had become.

“Yeah. She said she was a student. You know how that is. It’s expensive. But that wasn’t it. I would’ve bankrupted myself just to...”

“Keep the glitter sparkling?”

“Something like that. Anyway, last week I overheard two blokes talking about her at the club. At first, I thought it was just a couple of tossers being tossers, but something about it made my nose twitch. And I did what I swore I’d never do, from the first day I joined the force, to anyone that I cared about.”

John raised an eyebrow. Lestrade’s voice went as hard as a morgue slab.

“I played detective on her arse.”

John saw the vodka-soaked, love-struck sop disappear. In her place was a seasoned Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan Police Service.

“I’m quite good at it, you know? Inspecting. Detecting. Despite accusations to the contrary.”

John buried her smile in cup. “Damn right you are. And?”

“I got her real name and her fingerprints and ran them through the system.”

“And it lit up like Christmas?”

“Oh, so you know how this story goes?!”

“Her feelings could’ve been genuine. You know, good-girl-gone-bad falls for ruggedly handsome, honest, down-on-her-luck copper. I saw that film. I liked it.”

Lestrade rolled her eyes. Her laugh sounded more like a wheeze. “Then I did a bit of snooping, just to see how many of admirers she was actively entertaining. I stopped counting at five. Different from the rest? What a laugh! Tomorrow’s my day off, so when the case finished up, I had a bit of the ol’ Irish courage and went to confront her at the club. But rather than have a go right away, I drank even more, watched her do a couple of numbers, and then decided to have it out. Tell me, John, please, how pathetic am I?”

“How would I know, love? Today, per request, I retrieved a mobile. From its owner’s suit jacket. _While the jacket was being worn_.”

Lestrade tipped her cup back and snickered. Then she said, “But I don’t think you’d ever find yourself in my particular shoes. Not the ones I wore this evening.”

“I don’t know about that.”

John’s thoughts drifted to the Spearmint Rhino, to the men seated around the stage, watching, glazed-eyed, not noticing, or if noticing not caring, as iridescent specks settled in their beers and whiskeys. Had she looked any less awe-struck the first time she’d been audience to a certain mental acrobatics? Afghanistan or Iraq—the intellectual equivalent of a pole dance? It didn’t bear thinking about. Married to her Work. Not really her area.

John focused on the woman opposite her. She held out the bottle.

“Aren’t you supposed to be sobering me up?” asked Lestrade

“You and your pathetic story are driving me to drink.” John poured them each two generous fingers of liquid. “But you said that there were clues, even in the beginning.”

“Of course there were, but I ignored them.” Lestrade took a long swig. John mirrored her and felt the fuzzy edges of her mind grow fuzzier. She set her cup down carefully.

Enough of that.

Lestrade waved her hand with the cup, splashing herself, John, and the sofa. “I ignored all my instincts, all my training, all my self-preservation, just because I wanted so desperately to forget how,” her voice broke, “how old, fat, and alone I actually am.”

Oh, Lord.

Once again, John sensed that Lestrade was on the brink of a face-splotching, chest-heaving sob. She took Lestrade’s cup and set it on the floor. Then she clasped both Lestrade’s hands in hers and held her gaze.

“I can’t stop the march of time, love, and I can’t make you see what I see when I look at you, but I can tell you this: you are not alone, not as long as I’m here.”

Lestrade’s lip quivered again. “Don’t go, John. This sad little flat, I can’t bare it. Not tonight.”

“Thought never crossed my mind.”

John brushed Lestrade’s cheek and then cupped her jaw, pulling her close until their lips touched.

* * *

John and Lestrade rose from the sofa and stumbled toward the bedroom, kissing and giggling and holding onto each other. Lestrade untied her bathrobe, and John pushed open the sides, sliding her arms around Lestrade’s waist and guiding her toward the bed. John’s legs hit the bed’s edge, and she flopped down on her back, pulling Lestrade with her. Together, they made a heavy thud. The bed springs protested.

Lestrade’s face darkened.

“Stop it,” whispered John. “This is not a pity fuck. I adore you, every bit of you.” She ran her hands up and down Lestrade’s sides. “And I think you feel the same about me, scars and all.”

Lestrade’s face lit up and she grinned. “Shall I shag your brains out, Doctor?”

“Set your sights higher, Detective Inspector. I’ve been reliably informed that I haven’t got any.”

“Me, too! Aren’t we a pair?!”

They kissed, both still smiling, teeth clacking. Then they pulled back, tilting their heads left and right, bumping noses and laughing. When their lips met again, the kiss was warm and gentle. John wanted to kiss away Lestrade’s pain. She wanted every brush of her lips and tongue to convey how beautiful Lestrade was, how desirable, how precious. She licked Lestrade’s bottom lip, and Lestrade opened her mouth. Tongues met as John’s hands explored Lestrade’s body, her fingertips skimming over smooth skin.

Lestrade shifted until they were side-by-side on the bed. John’s mouth moved to Lestrade’s jaw, peppering it with kisses until she reached the tender spot behind her ear.

“Lovely,” she whispered. Lestrade sighed and relaxed against her.

John’s cupped Lestrade’s buttock, then slid her hand down to her thigh. She pulled Lestrade closer. “Come here,” she breathed. Lestrade draped her leg over John’s hip. Then John’s lips trailed down one side of Lestrade’s neck to her shoulder, and she mouthed the round prominence. Lestrade whined and ground her hips into John. John’s hand migrated Lestrade’s belly, caressing the soft ripples of flesh.

Lestrade pressed her chest against John and cupped her own breast. “Go on. I know you’re a breast woman.”

John barked a laugh. “How do you know?” She bent her head and covered the nipple with her mouth.

“Deduced it.”

John snorted. She took her time, sucking and licking until Lestrade groaned. Then she dropped her hand to Lestrade’s mons.

“S’alright?”

Lestrade hummed and hid her face in John’s neck. John inhaled the scent of her shampoo. Then she teased Lestrade’s clit until she was writhing. When Lestrade’s hips began to buck hard and a plea of ‘More’ escaped her lips, John sank two fingers inside her.

“John!”

John curled her fingers and pressed against Lestrade’s clit with her palm. She rolled onto her back, and Lestrade followed. Then Lestrade was straddling her and riding John until the muscles of John’s hand began to ache.

“Holy Mother of God, yes! Yes, yes, yes!”

John felt a surge of tenderness at the sight of Lestrade coming apart above her. She curled her free hand under Lestrade’s arm and around her shoulder, holding her tight until she felt her go boneless.

And then the dam burst.

Tears slid down John’s neck. She quickly repositioned them so she could wrap both arms around Lestrade.

“S’okay, love. I’m so sorry that she hurt you. You’re not alone. You’re lovely and strong and so, so many beautiful things, beautiful words. Shhh, shhh, S’okay.” John continued her litany of reassurances until the crying slowed.

“Christ, John. I’m…”

“Human. Just human.”

Lestrade sniffed and wiped her nose with her hand. “You’re still fully dressed.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to…”

“Really, you don’t…”

The look on Lestrade’s face stopped John. She wouldn’t be the one rejecting her friend, making her feel less. Not tonight. Not ever.

John rolled away and started to undress. “I want to feel the weight of you on me. I want that adorable mouth on me,” she said, lowering her voice to a purr. “If that’s okay?” She wiggled her eyebrows and gave Lestrade a lop-sided smile.

Lestrade laughed. “That’s more than okay. Come here, you.” They hugged, and John eased under her. Lestrade pinned John’s hands to the bed with her own, and John revelled in the feel of being held down, held still. Lestrade’s eager mouth moved from John’s lips to her chin to her breasts and lower.

Relax, relax.

John’s anxiety melted at the touch of Lestrade’s tongue. It was gentle and slow and warm, and John felt her eyes closing and her knees spreading of their own accord. The caress grew lighter and lighter, until it occurred to John that she wasn’t feel anything. Anything at all. She looked down.

“Oh, you did not!”

Lestrade snuffled, eyes closed, mouth slack, head pillowed on John’s thigh.

John shook her head and smiled.

* * *

When morning came, they were curled up together, John stroking Lestrade’s hair.

“Are you still angry?”

“At her? Nah. The clear light of day is very, uh, sobering.”

“She was right, though.”

“Right about what?”

“You take the un-funny cases, the un-surprising ones, the heart-breakingly ordinary ones. Best closure rate in the CID but you never forget the actual human lives that are at stake. Family notifications, the press, mountains of paperwork, you handle it all. You’re a good detective and a good police officer. The system is rigged from the get-go to keep you never more than a desk sergeant, and you beat it. She’s right, love. You _are_ different from the rest.”

“Says the doctor and the war hero and the uncanonised saint and martyr for putting up with your flatmate.”

“I’m very fortunate to have you as a friend, Greg.”

“Same here, love. Thank you. For that. For everything.”

Lestrade took John’s hand and kissed her fingertips.

“You’re welcome.”

They fell into silence. Finally Lestrade said, “There’s been something I’ve been meaning to show you.” She rolled out of the bed and plodded to the other room. She returned with her phone, tapped it, and turned the screen toward John.

“Han Solo’s back!”

John gasped. “A new Star Wars!”

“Do you remember…?”

“Of course, I do. We have to go see it together.”

“I’ll sneak out of Monday morning meeting.”

“[Just like old times](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1248886).”

_DOO-doo-DOO-doo!_

Lestrade looked at the screen and groaned. “Bloody hell! It’s my day off!”

“Work?”

Lestrade nodded and put the phone to her ear. John grabbed her clothes and headed to the toilet. She closed the door behind her and turned on the taps. Lestrade’s voice carried over the sound of running water.

“Dimmock, this had better be very important. Jesus Christ! Give him back his phone! You can’t just steal things from police officers when they annoy you. What? Well, it’s his crime scene; he can do that. Yeah? Alright. Let me talk to him. No, it’s my day off. I’m not going down there. Yeah, she’s here. Not your business. Still not your business. John’s right: you are spectacularly ignorant about some things. Your flatmate for starters, mate. Give the phone back to Dimmock or I won’t go down there or ask John to go with me. Yeah, _ask_ , I don’t go ordering the people I love about. No, I won’t demand that she turn her phone on. No, I won’t give her this phone.”

John watched a few flecks of glitter swirl and disappear down the drain.

There was a soft knock.  

“John? Case?”

John cracked the door, smiling.

“Ready when you are.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
